


With Both Hands

by Cheloya



Series: Dissonance [1]
Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. Some things D cannot bear.





	With Both Hands

**Author's Note:**

> The reincarnation fic, all growed up. Despite knowing better, as far as translation goes, I’m going with the lines in the Tokyopop edition, for the sake of easy recognition.

The shot came first, of course, but the sharpness of the bullet’s impact seemed to precede the sound as far as his nerve endings were concerned. His whole arm jerked away from the button, driven by the force applied to his shoulder. It was a good three seconds before the pain set in, pulsing along his neck and tightening all the muscles there – which did nothing to help, as they spasmed around the lead ball lodged there.  
  
D steadied himself against the controls, blood seeping down his sleeve, trickling between his fingers, slicking the metal beneath his hand. Smile still firmly in place as he stared over the bannister at the human holding the gun.  
  
It was strange. D had never associated that face with fear, had never associated that blue with the kind of horror that seemed to hold Vesca in thrall. But he could see Vesca’s jaw twitch, see his hands tremble, see the fear-sweat on a high brow – higher than D had expected. The years had not been kind to his old friend.  
  
This grief would be far crueller.  
  
Yet Vesca’s hand must be forced, for D’s son to be saved. The thought hollowed him, carved through his body leaving nothing but guilt and pity in its wake. Vesca’s hand must be forced, because if there was one thing in this world that must be removed, that _could_ be removed so that his son could see thr truth, then D would remove it, because no matter the years or the hatred or the madness, D loved his son. More than plants, more than animals, more than vengeance for a perfect world dessicated by humans.  
  
Certainly more than he loved the truth in human eyes as clear as water.  
  
“Not much of a shot, are you, Vesca?”  
  
The words emerged as was their custom: honey’s smooth drift down the blade of a knife, sweet and sharp and deadly. But there was a rattle, a rasp, and he knew that the agent’s bullet had severed more than mere muscle and bone.  
  
“You can do better.”  
  
A hitch; a heaviness, warm and wet, and an echo of his own voice through his head: _how does it feel to be dying, Detective?_  
  
“After all, if there’s one thing you humans can do, it’s kill.”  
  
Vesca’s face creased, the lines, all the lines, engraving themselves more savagely, and D knew that the agent, for all his bravado, could hear that death rattle, too. “You monster.”  
  
D felt his distress more than the next three bullets; the betrayal roiled through those clear blue eyes as— _you bastard_ —his collar— _how can you_ —his hip— _why would you make me_ —and D’s own hand clenching desperately at his own hip, supporting, reminding—he had to, he had to, he must.  
  
The gun clicked empty. D’s fingers hovered over the switch at his side, the switch that would— _destroy us all_ —do absolutely nothing.  
  
Their eyes met as his long nails grazed the button’s surface.  
  
And then searing pain and a too-loud noise and his thoughts turned suddenly to confusion. There was blood in his eyes instead of blue horror and his son was screaming and disbelief emanating from the agent’s every pore _what do I do_ \--do. Do. There was something he had to do.  
  
He touched the switch and his legs gave out beneath him as the explosion rocked the room, robbing him of balance and leaving him sprawled and bleeding, a broken doll crumpled to the floor.  
  
 _This is all your fault, father._  
  
“Father! _Father!_ ”  
  
His son. So pained. So sincere. Sch a sweet child he had grown to be. Such a lovely child. His child. His son.  
  
There was something he had to do.  
  
He forced his eyes to focus on that face, so like his own, the bicoloured eyes that should have brough the three of them together and instead tore them apart; blinked away the blood that streaked his pupils.  
  
“Remember what you have seen,” he said, and his voice really was faltering now, though he would not cough, he would not sputter his way into the death he had worked so hard to create, though he grew so cold, and it hurt. “…for it is the last memory I bequeath to you. Blood enveloped by flame. Our kind slain by the humans.”  
  
His son’s eyes were wide and desperate and grieving already; he understood, as well as D himself, the sacrifice that had been made.  
  
“Do not embrace hope again. We… must n-never forgive…” a shallow lungful; violet and gold, ebony and ivory blending before his eyes even as he reached for them to keep them close, keep them clear; blue eyes on them both and the resounding fury _**no**_ “…the humans…”  
  
His vision darkened. A thousand strands of light and life poured outward from the flesh that had contained him, a thousand woes and vengeances of the creatures that had fought to remain in this world. He could almost… almost reach…  
  
He felt Vesca falter in the onslaught, felt all that he was being swept by the tide, felt the despair _no, I will not let you_ and felt, finally, warmth. Warm existence on the tip of his… tip of…  
  
He pulled Vesca towards himself, inside himself, and was gone.


End file.
